


The Rubicon

by princesskay



Series: Claire/Frank Missing Scenes [2]
Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s02e01 Chapter 14, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 07:24:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12228267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: Ruthlessness and pragmatism stand like soldiers at the front lines, guarding the less protected, less worthwhile cavalry of humanity and compassion. There’s no room for weakness, not anymore.Following Zoe's death, Claire and Frank come to the realization that they've both passed the point of no return on their path toward power.





	The Rubicon

The house is silent when he returns from the metro. The only sound is in his head, where he can still hear the sickening thud of Zoe’s body being crushed by a ton of speeding steel. It’s a strange feeling, so far removed from the night of Peter’s death that he can’t quite reconcile the two actions to be fundamentally identical. 

If he’d had the choice, he would have let her live. But she’d left him no other option. 

Trudging up the stairs, he finds Claire waiting for him. She lights the single candle on the cake that sits on the table, and turns to gaze at him with the calculated calm he’s always relied upon. 

He sits down in front of the cake, and gazes dourly at the dancing flame. 

_ Happy birthday.  _

He reaches out to snuff the flame out with a pinch of his thumb and forefinger, just as he had snuffed out Zoe’s life. Gone in an instant. 

Suddenly, he hates birthdays now more than ever. 

Claire reaches out to touch his hand. Her fingers are cool and steadying. 

Meeting her gaze, he sees his own reflection in the pale blue of her eyes. Ruthlessness and pragmatism stand like soldiers at the front lines, guarding the less protected, less worthwhile cavalry of humanity and compassion. 

There’s no room for weakness, not anymore. 

That realization is mutually agreed upon without a word uttered. 

She rises from the table, and pulls on his hand to lead him away from the birthday cake and it’s celebration of life. 

He follows her into the bedroom where she turns, and presses against him. The only light is the pewter slant of moonbeams through the silken curtains. In the dense shadows, he can make out her resolute expression that’s cold and sharp as if cut from glass. 

She strips the jacket from his shoulders, and begins to unbutton the front of his shirt. 

He presses his gaze to hers.  _ Do you know where I’ve been?  _

She ducks her head, bangs shielding whatever doubt may be hiding in her eyes. 

She knows. She knows, and it doesn’t stop her. 

He lets out a slow exhale as she peels his shirt from his arms. Her fingers snag on his belt buckle, stopping for the first time to ask,  _ Is this what you want?  _

He presses his fingers under her chin, and forces her gaze up to his. Undaunted, she meets the charcoal burn of dispersing anger and lust in his eyes.

His rage is turning to smoke, but the blood is still hot in his veins. It courses through him like molten lava against solid rock, cutting through and excavating the deepest, darkest hidden things below the surface. 

Taking her by the hips, he turns her around to face the bed. 

Her back arches softly as he presses against her, his fingers locating the lip of the zipper at the nape of her dress. He tugs the zipper down at a gradual, grinding pace until the fabric wilts from her shoulders and chest. He gives it a nudge when it catches at her hips, and it falls around her ankles in a heap. 

His palm presses against her bare hip, absorbing the warmth of her skin, relishing the softness. Her belly quivers as he drag his hand upward, following the edges of her ribs until he feels lace and the swell of her breast. 

Lowering his mouth to her shoulder, he brands a smoldering kiss into her skin. 

She draws in a shaky breath, and exhales with a whimper, “Francis-”

He curls his fingers around the cup of the bra, and yanks the garment free of her chest, jarring a muted yelp from her throat. Claiming her one breast with a coarse palm, he unclasps the bra, and discards it with another biting tug. 

Her breaths come in raspy gusts as he fondles her breast, and reaches down with the other hand to delve his fingers beneath the waistband of her panties. His questing fingers find her already slick and swollen, her juices saturating the thin fabric of her panties. He pushes his fingers in, choking out a twisted sound of desire. He mutes the moans climbing his throat by clamping his lips at the base of her neck, and sucks until he hears her whimper. 

“Yes, yes …” She rasps. Her hips rock into the firm press of his hand, begging him to take her. “Francis, yes …” 

He withdraws his hand, eliciting a soft gasp of need from her. Before she can utter further protest, he nudges her forward, toward the bed. They move together, as one, until they reach the neatly made sheets, and he pushes her down. 

She stretches her legs open as he climbs onto the bed behind her. Crawling over her, he bends to scatter a row of burning kisses down her throat and shoulder, and reaches between them to slide the panties down over the curve of her ass. She arches up against him, grinding her backside into his growing erection, barely concealed by layers of clothing. 

He thrusts his hand beneath the stretch of lace, penetrating her with two fingers, resolute,  _ brutal.  _

She cries out, tearing her nails through the sheets. 

He pumps his fingers into her, grimacing a smile at the gush of wet heat and quiver of her body. 

“Francis …” She whispers, her voice etched with aching desire, “ _ Francis _ .” 

Their frantic motions cease. His fingers rest pliantly within her. 

She turns her head so she can see him over her shoulder. Even in the dim light, he can make out her expression - cold, yet poignant like an ancient marble statue’s image of righteous suffering. 

“She’s gone now, Francis …” 

He closes his eyes as her words revive the metallic shriek of the train’s brakes in his mind. 

“She’s gone. Stop letting her control you.” 

When he forces his eyes open, Claire’s gaze is as precise and discerning as a surgeon’s blade cutting him open, shedding light on parts that had never before seen illumination. This new and deep object of murder that resides within his chest shrivels and evolves under her caress. It can either help or hurt him, but she, as always, knows how to twist the correct response from him. 

“Don’t think about her. Look at me.” 

She rolls underneath him until she’s on her back, and staring up at him with an icy infusion of desire and resolution. 

“ _ Look  _ at me.” 

He drops to his elbows over her, pressing his forehead to hers. Their eyes clash, barely an inch apart. He grinds his forehead into hers until it hurts, and a hiss seeps past his clenched jaw. 

“Now act.” Claire whispers, harshly, breath puffing hot against his face with each syllable. “Stop  _ re _ acting. Just act. Fuck me.” 

Her words set a fire within him, and he lurches into motion. His fingers feel thick and numb with the heady rush of adrenaline as he fumbles for the zipper of his trousers. Shoving his pants and boxers down, he arches forward to find her opening with the head of his cock. 

She’s smooth and slick, all but suckling him down into her. Her velvet folds wrap around the base of his cock as he seats himself fully to her depth. Her body stretched, but quivering and clamping tight, she caresses him swiftly toward the breaking point. 

A groan wrenches from his throat. He clutches at her hips, nails digging into her soft flesh as he rocks in shallow, trembling thrusts against her. 

She wraps her arms around his neck, and drags her own nails over his back, just hard enough to sting. Her breath punches from her lungs and against his ear with each solid smack of their bodies colliding. 

“Yes …” She breathes. He feels her teeth against the outer curve of his ear, her breath blasting hot against the lobe. “Good..” 

He ruts into her, breaths coming quick and harsh from his burning chest. He pays no mind to the inelegance, the animal coarseness of their coupling. His brain is engulfed in flame and need, all action springing from his throbbing cock inside her. Every fiber of him is focused on her - her high-pitched, pretty whimpers, her skin soft and misty with perspiration, her pussy clutching him like a vice. And her voice - her voice _ praising _ him for this savagery. 

Lifting himself from her chest, he wraps his fingers around her wrists. He drags her nails from his shoulders, ignoring the scratches she leaves behind, and forces her arms above her head. He pins her against the mattress as his thrusts hammer on, establishing a deep, punishing rhythm that leaves her arching and writhing against his grip. 

Her mouth stretches open, a soft gasp winding from her throat. 

A thin smile forces it’s way to his mouth, drawn by her breasts jostling against her ribs, her stretched open thighs that invite every blow, and the weak whimpers of pleasure that he’s well aware are conjured just for his pleasure. She knows just what strings to pull. 

The pleasure comes swift and eager, barrelling through his chest and between his legs. It crests along the horizon in his mind, gathering force, until it pummels him like flood waters against a weakened dam. He bows over her as it rushes through him, sparking wave after wave of blissful spasms. His thrusts break off into fractured tremors, languidly pumping slick release into her. 

The climax is so sharp, so enduring, he’s light-head by the time he draws a breath, and blinks his eyes open to reality. Breathing shakily, he slides out of her, and sinks down to rest his head against her belly. 

Claire’s fingers weave through his hair. 

“Don’t stop.” She murmurs. 

He lifts his head to meet her smoldering gaze. 

“It’s sink or swim now. Don’t stop to think.” 

He nudges her legs open, and without breaking his gaze from hers, drags his thumb along her wet slit. 

Her eyes flutter shut, pleasure darting across her face. 

He massages the pad of his thumb into her swollen clit, watching as her expression shifts from somber to desperate. Her teeth dig into her lower lip, holding back whimpers, and her fingers curl around sections of the bedsheets until her knuckles blanch white. 

Letting his thumb slide away, he turns his gaze to her pink, glistening pussy. A milky stream of his come trickles from within her, soaking into the bedsheets. Her own arousal glazes her labia and clitoris. She’s pliant, quivering,  _ ready. _

Leaning forward, he extends his tongue to press a delicate stroke up her gushing slit and to her clitoris. He can taste the sweet tang her, and the salty flavor of his own release. 

Her ribs expand and tremble against a muted cry. Heels digging into the mattress, she tilts her hips toward him, begging for more. 

He licks her again, gentle,  _ simmering _ . He can all but see her clitoris twitching in desperation.

A cry bubbles up against her pursed lips, but she doesn’t speak. Her fingers wrap tighter around the sheets, anchoring herself in place. He can imagine she’s burning up from the inside out with lust, her body tight and aching with heightened need - and the thought gives him almost more pleasure than orgasm. 

Pressing the tip of his tongue against her, he draws a thin, firm circle around her clit, gradually increasing pace until she’s shaking, fighting not to move, not to  _ scream _ . He shifts his tongue down to taste the arousal drizzling from her, the silent testament of her agonized need. 

He glances up her body, noting the quiver of her belly, her ribs pressing like knives against her skin, her heaving chest. Her mouth is pursed tight over a cry, tendons standing taut at her flushed throat. 

He touches her gently with his fingertips, tracing the splayed, puffy shape of her labia. As the edge of his thumb crests the second fold, she bucks, her body violently rejecting the self-imposed reticence. A gasp tears from her throat, guttural and harsh. One hand lunges from the sheets to his hair, yanking his face toward her with a brutal twist. 

He clamps his lips around her slick folds, and suckles hard, until she’s writhing away from him. When he draws back, he lets the flesh slide from the suction of his lips with a resounding smack that leaves her tender labia flush with racing blood. 

“Oh …” The first sound of desperation lurches from Claire’s throat. 

She arches her hips toward him, offering, pleading. 

He drags his mouth against her inner thigh, leaving behind saliva and the impression of his breath. The muscles beneath his lips quiver in their effort to remain still. A low whine trails from her mouth, and her fingers wrench his hair until her knuckles are taut against his skull. Ignoring the sting of his scalp, he works his way down, leaving purposeful kisses that won’t soon wash away or cease their burning. 

When he reaches her soft, dripping center, she arches and gasps. Her fingers flex tight around his hair, locking his face against her, and ending the torturous teasing. Burying his face in the slick, warm cradle between her thighs, he presses his tongue to her waiting clit. He rolls his tongue over the swollen bud, lapping up her arousal, tracking the shivers of need that ripple through her. She’s on the edge, right between painful need and trembling bliss - he can  _ taste  _ it. 

The seconds stretch on in the muted silence of anticipation. The only sound is the slick grind of his tongue against her. She shudders and arches, but her need is etched only in the twisted expression of desire on her face - not in sound, not in words. 

He doesn’t need words to know the immense and potent pleasure boiling to the surface within her …. Until that silence staggers away into the climax, and the pleasure tears away her self-control, her dignity. She strains into a beautiful, agonized arch, and then it snaps - the first sparks of a fire that send her lurching against his stroking tongue, spilling the fresh, heady juices of her pleasure into his eager, open mouth. The spasms course through her, each one powerful, battering. She’s marked with the blooming red of satisfaction, from her cheeks to her pink, open lips to her pert, hard nipples.

He sweeps his gaze upward to take it all in while his mouth remains latched to her, drinking up her pleasure; the image forms and solidifies in his memory, stacking up like a brick wall between him and a speeding train. 

As she melts back to the sheets in blissful aftermath, he draws his mouth away from her tender flesh. His breathing is slow and steady now. He kisses her belly, gently this time instead of fierce. 

“I did something terrible today.” 

He lifts his head sharply at the sound of her hoarse voice.

She doesn’t move her gaze from the ceiling to look at him. 

“What did you do?” 

“I threatened the life of a child.” She murmurs, “An unborn child, a defenseless, innocent …” 

“Claire.” 

He crawls up next to her, and catches her cheek in his palm. She blinks up at him, her eyes misty and distant. 

“I would have done it.” She says, her tongue darting across her lower lip. “I would have let it die if Gillian hadn’t …” 

“You did what you had to do. For you. For  _ us. _ ” 

The justification may have sounded inconsequential to someone else, but to him, it’s all that matters. After all these years, it should be all that matters to her too, but perhaps he’s just too far gone to see the light from the other side. 

“I was visiting a doctor … a specialist that performs IVF.” 

He blinks, more shocked by this admission than the one before.

“What?” 

“I didn’t want to tell you until I had proof that it could work, and proof that I was willing to do whatever it took to make it happen.” 

“Claire-”

“Let me finish.” 

He leans back as she sits upright, gathering her knees to her chest. He touches her back gently, encouraging her honesty. 

“The truth is, it might not have worked.” Claire murmurs, “But I  _ was  _ willing to do whatever it took …. Just not to have a baby. After today, I know …. I’m not fit to be a mother. It was a silly fantasy that I entertained far too long.” 

“Claire, you should have told me.” 

“And you would have told me exactly what I’m saying now.” 

She swings a sharp, cutting gaze over her shoulder. Her eyes are frosty blue. He cannot pander to this tempered version of her, a realization which faintly pleases him. 

“You’re no more fit to be a father than I am a mother.” She adds, her voice quiet but lethal. 

“You ended it.” He whispers, the words coming out half a question, half a realization. 

She nods, her mouth pursing over the gathering emotion in her eyes. 

He wraps his arms around her, pulling her face to his shoulder. She rests there, but does not cry, doesn’t make a sound. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers. 

She doesn’t reply, instead letting the silence eat up that false sentiment. They both know it’s a lie, but still, they sit in the solitude of this embrace, taking it for comfort. 

He suddenly remembers the cake sitting abandoned on the table just beyond this bedroom. There’s bitter irony in the fact that they’re supposed to be celebrating the year behind them  instead of mourning the things they lost, the meaningless things they put too much of their soul into. Somehow, Claire’s loss of a dream seems more identical to Zoe’s departure than Zoe's death does to Peter’s. 

He knows after tonight, there won’t be another tear shed for those losses. Change is constant, if not essential; and if they’re to survive another year and achieve all they want, they’ll have to leave a few things behind. After all, the things that are in the past are in the past for a reason. Those burned bridges will light the way ahead, and soon, this night will be just another fire blazing into the darkness. 

~the end~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> You can also find me on [Tumblr!](http://clairehales.tumblr.com//)!


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